


Unintended consequences.

by Bradspyjamas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mycroft/Lestrade established relationship, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sherlock's Past, Slash, Smoking, Starvation, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bradspyjamas/pseuds/Bradspyjamas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes's reactions to Moriarty's little stunt at the pool are as similar as they are different.  Question is, did Moriarty know what he was going to unleash and is Sherlock ready for round two?</p><p>The months after S1, mostly from John's perspective, assuming that the pool scene ended the way it did at the start of S2.1</p><p>Please note that this is a WIP and that Bradspyjamas has now (as of 20 March 2014) handed it over to the sole care of Kizzia. This is because the PhD and a baby on the way has taken over Bradspyjamas life and she can't cope with a multichaptered fic. THUS WILL REMAIN ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, SINCE KIZZIA HAS HER OWN FICS TO COMPLETE FIRST</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly inspired by 'Sick fic' from LittlePippin76 over on FFnet and The Road Less Traveled by VerityBurns  
> This has also been cross posted to Livejournal and FFnet

You couldn’t live with Sherlock for two months without picking up some of his observational skills and since, by profession, John was trained to monitor the human body, the effects of Moriarty’s little stunt on both of the Holmes boys had not gone unnoticed.  He’d partially anticipated Sherlock’s reaction but he hadn't expected it to be quite so extreme.  Not that it had required much in terms of deductive skill to work out what Sherlock was, or rather wasn’t, doing; when you consistently come home to find your living space clouded with cigarette smoke, your flatmate’s cheekbones go from sharp to positively atom-splitting within a week and the only food leaving the kitchen does so in your own hands it doesn’t take a doctor to figure out what’s going on.  It was Mycroft who floored him. He hadn’t expected him to show any reaction to Sherlock’s obvious decline.

The first time John realised what was going on was two weeks after what Mycroft persisted in referring to as the “debacle at the pool”.  Mycroft had 'abducted' John less than a day after the incident, to inform him that he wanted daily updates on Sherlock's physical condition and, sensing the genuine concern in the other man's face, he'd obliged.  He hadn't sugar-coated the texts though , too worried himself to find a polite way of saying Sherlock was starving himself to death and that morning had simply written:

_If no improvement within week will need hospitalisation - JW_

So he hadn’t been that surprised, when he returned from his shift at the surgery, to find Mycroft in the flat.

Sherlock, who resembled a dressing gown clad Belsen inmate, had expressed his displeasure at his sibling’s presence by remaining at the window, back resolutely to the room, using his violin to produce a series of screeches that John had previously only associated with some of the more unpleasant methods of torture.  Mycroft was in John's chair, an expression of deep discomfort on his features, which John had initially put down to the appalling noise and the fact Sherlock was still in his pyjamas at four o’clock in the afternoon.  But when, as he shoved the milk in the fridge, he’d realised that Mycroft was eating, something he had never seen him do before, John looked properly at the man.

Mycroft wasn’t just eating; that was too bland a description for what he was doing to the biscuits John had left on the coffee table in the hope it _might_ tempt Sherlock into having one.  He was inhaling them at a very impressive speed, the culinary equivalent of chain smoking, John had thought at the time.  It was also clear, as he hadn’t stopped the minute John appeared, that he was not aware of his actions.  Plus he was shifting almost constantly in the chair, in what John recognised as an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his mid-section. 

A mid-section that was straining the expensive fabric of his suit to its limits, distended stomach visibly bulging where the waistband of his trousers cut into the swollen flesh beneath the waistcoat.  John had winced in sympathy and, feeling faintly sick at the thought of exactly how much Mycroft must have eaten to get like that, waited with baited breath for the harsh remark he was certain Sherlock would make once he deigned to acknowledge either of them. 

It didn’t come.

When Sherlock finally did turn round, after John had used his parade ground voice on him, his eyes flicked blankly over them both and then he just stalked out of the room. As John sat in shock at the lack of reaction from his flat-mate – where was the man who always had to have the last word - Mycroft had given John a sad smile, gestured towards a manila file that was next to the now empty biscuit packet and left, grimacing with every step.

The file contained everything Mycroft had dug up on Moriarty’s network plus several medical reports from Sherlock’s youth and early twenties.  It had taken John three hours to read everything, another hour to compose himself and then approximately five seconds to text Mycroft and ask what the hell he was meant to be doing with the information.  The subsequent meetings gave John ample data on how Mycroft responded to Sherlock induced stress but he made the point of never saying anything to the man. Besides, he had no frame of reference for how Mycroft would react to his input and the thought of the havoc upsetting him any more could wreck on both of them was more than enough to ensure he kept his opinions to himself.   

So he stayed silent and instead concentrated on trying to protect Sherlock, both from himself and from Moriarty, even to the point where he dragged the caffeine and nicotine crazed man to Barts for a day and inflicted him on poor Molly, just so Mycroft’s team could update the surveillance equipment along Baker Street without him noticing. 

He didn't completely ignore Mycroft's issues though. He took Greg to the pub.  Two pints in, having established that yes, he’d made the right assumption about the cause of Greg’s rather dramatic reaction to finding Mycroft standing two foot from live explosives at the pool, he asked - straight out, quietly wondering when Sherlock's refusal to conform to societal norms had rubbed off on him - whether Greg was struggling with the changes in his partner. 

Greg’s response had been eye opening.  The expression on his face when he’d informed John that

a) Mycroft had been an awful lot bigger than he was now when they’d first got together,

b) he didn’t give a flying fuck what clothes size Mycroft took and

c) if John was really that shallow he'd better get the hell out of there before he lost his cool

had made John re-evaluate exactly what D.I. Lestrade might be capable of when riled.

An apology and another pint later he explained that he’d been asking whether Greg was concerned about Mycroft’s mental state, _not_ his waist measurement.  Greg had shrugged, taken another sip of his drink and said, with a long suffering sigh, that worrying about both was par for the course when you shared your life with a Holmes.  John had given a non-committal grunt at the time but later that night, as he’d held Sherlock - who was suffering from a starvation induced stomach migraine - while he retched futilely into the toilet, he acknowledged to himself that Greg was completely, one hundred percent, right.

It took John a month to get Sherlock to eat more than half an apple a day and that had only happened because he’d almost made good on his message to Mycroft and admitted him to hospital for re-feeding after the migraine episode.  He didn’t think he’d ever forget the way Sherlock had said “Please don’t send me away, John” although he knew that he attached a different meaning to the words than Sherlock probably did, given that he’d finally admitted, in the privacy of his own head, that what he felt for Sherlock went way beyond the bounds of friendship.

However the threat had worked.  Sherlock began to slowly progress from apples to rice and then on to peanut butter sandwiches and chicken soup. As he did the irascible, irritating man who had returned the spark and colour to John’s world began to reappear; his body slowly, millimetre by millimetre, moving from skeletal to painfully thin.  The day Sherlock voluntarily ate a slice of Mrs Hudson’s Victoria sponge John allowed himself to hope that the worst was over and filled the flat with fruit, peanut butter and a selection of highly appetising, high calorie treats.

However it wasn’t until Mycroft and Greg had turned up one Saturday, discreetly yet very much together, to request Sherlock’s help with a cold case which they thought might have been masterminded by Moriarty, that John got _his_ Sherlock back; sibling rivalry, acerbic comments and all:

‘Two stone, ten pounds in six weeks, brother.  Is that a new record?’ were the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth after they walked into the room.

‘Don’t be tiresome, Sherlock,’ Mycroft’s voice held nothing but distain, ‘At least my addiction does not harm anyone else.’ 

He coughed pointedly and Sherlock took another drag on his current cigarette in response.

‘Well, are you just here to test the tensile strength of the floorboards or do you have something for me?’

Mycroft handed over the files, apparently content to ignore Sherlock's jibes, and Greg began to outline the case as Sherlock spread the papers across the table, intent on the shots of the crime scene. What followed was Sherlock at his best, mind whirring so fast even Mycroft seemed to be struggling to keep up. John provided coffee, biscuits and a suitably impressed expression every time he caught Sherlock's eye and pretended not to notice when Mycroft wandered out into the kitchen and ate an entire chocolate cake.

It wasn’t until two incredibly intense hours later when Greg, having polished off the plate of biscuits that John had balanced next to him to keep them out of Mycroft’s reach, sagged into an armchair that John realised what it was that had been nagging at him about Greg’s appearance since he’d arrived. He had gained weight too.  There had alway been a curve to Greg’s stomach but this was a definite belly, more obvious now he was sitting down and it was pushed well over the waistband of his jeans, straining the buttons of his shirt.  John turned, shaking his head at Sherlock, but it was too late.

‘Eleven and three quarter pounds, Lestrade, ten of which have gone straight on your stomach.’

He turned to Mycroft, eyes flashing in triumph. ‘Apparently your inability to control your appetite isn’t so harmless after all, brother dear.  Do you think he was just trying to make you feel better about your gargantuan gut by creating one of his own, or does he feel obliged to eat more than he should just because he knows if he doesn’t eat it, you will?’

‘Fuck off, Sherlock!’ Greg sprang from the chair and marched out of the flat, his face red.  ’Are you coming?’ he called back to Mycroft over the thunder of his footsteps on the stairs.

‘One moment, Gregory,’ Mycroft stood and turned on Sherlock with an expression so contemptuous it could have scorched wood. ‘That man saved your life and your sanity and gives you the work you love, yet you embarrass and ridicule him to score a point off me ... Really Sherlock, isn’t it about time you grew up?’

John hadn’t bothered to give Sherlock a piece of his mind after Mycroft had gone, the pink tinge to his cheeks in his otherwise ashen face told John he didn’t need to.  The fact that he remained frozen to the spot, in silence, for the next two hours and then sent a text to Greg that simply said _Sorry – SH_ came as a pleasant surprise. John wasn’t as happy that Sherlock didn’t sleep that night, instead pacing the floor of the living room, muttering under his breath and occasionally playing snatches of what John recognised as Vivaldi, but he didn’t complain about the result; Sherlock spent the following day practically glued to John’s side, being far more tactile than John had ever thought possible. 

Monday morning came with the reappearance of Greg, who turned up with a huge cardboard box just as John was leaving for his shift.  John’s quizical expression was met with a small smile and the assurance that he had just come to have a chat with Sherlock before he went to the Yard.  When John returned home the flat was pristine, all the windows were open, the smoke and the ashtrays had gone and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, eyes wide and leg bouncing.

‘Patches,’ He said abruptly, gesturing to the open box in which nestled what looked like several months worth of nicotine replacement. ‘Lestrade brought them for me.’

‘That was kind of him,’ John walked into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, smiling as he heard Sherlock’s footsteps behind him.

‘He and Mycroft are going on a diet,’ Sherlock said, his voice devoid of the sarcasm that usually accompanied any sentence that included the words Mycroft and diet. When John turned and raised an enquiring eyebrow, Sherlock continued ‘He came because he wanted to clear the air and he thought I might want to do something for you.’

‘Giving up smoking shouldn’t be for me,’ John said as Sherlock moved closer, the oddest look in his eyes. ‘It won’t work if it isn’t what you want, Sherlock. It has to be for you.’

‘It’s for both of us,’ Sherlock closed the gap between them and John realised that the look on his face was fear, ‘but that wasn’t the thing I wanted to do. I want to ...’ he hesitated, hands hovering in front of him but then he pulled them back. ‘... no I have to say this first because ... because I was wrong.’

Sherlock was panting, his pupils hugely dilated and John’s eyes flicked to his forearms only to realise that he wasn’t actually wearing a patch at all.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Don’t you see?’ Sherlock was now so close John could feel him quivering. 'Don't you _see_?'

‘See what?’

‘How often I was wrong! That when I told you I was married to my work I was lying. Lying to you and to myself.  That when I said everything else was transport, I was just being ignorant.  That when I told Moriarty I didn’t have a heart I was just trying to sheild you.’

He spun away from John, hands clenching and jaw muscle jumping and, for a moment, John wondered if he was going to be sick.  Then he was back in front of him with an expression so completely open that John had trouble breathing.  When he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper.

‘I do have a heart, John. I do have feelings but ... I’ve spent all my life shutting them away, pretending they weren't there. I was convinced that allowing myself to love would destroy me, the way the taunts and then the cocaine almost did. Those times that I tried to feel were far more overwhelming than any drug. I ... I was scared of sensations I didn’t understand, scared of emotions I didn’t have any reference for and so I pushed them away, pushed you away, like a silly little boy.’

He reached out a hand, brushing a thumb along John’s jaw and fought for breath, ‘As much as I loathe saying it, Mycroft was right, it is time I grew up.’

And then Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s.


	2. Fanning the flames

It would look, John supposed, like an incredibly chaste kiss, had anyone been there to witness it. Just Sherlock’s mouth on his, their lips slightly open, breathing each other's air.  Sherlock’s hands were fisted in the back of John’s jumper and his own were flat on Sherlock’s back and they were pressed together from knee to head, as close as they could physically get without tangling their legs.  They weren’t moving, just being, but it felt anything but chaste. In fact it was the most erotic thing John had ever experienced; the sensations so intense he was struggling to think beyond them.  Every single place where he and Sherlock touched was pulsing, hot and demanding, like the sweetest of itches. He wanted to touch, to lick, to suck, to taste but just this, on its own, was so incredible he dared not move.  If the thrum of Sherlock’s heart against his chest and the tiny noises coming from the back of his throat were anything to go by, Sherlock was experiencing something similar.  It was so new, so frightening and so wonderful John wasn't sure it was actually happening.

Eventually Sherlock pulled away and John couldn’t contain his whimper at the loss of contact before Sherlock rested their foreheads together and gave a shaky half sob, releasing his grip on John’s jumper so that he could brush the tips of his fingers over John’s lips.

‘Was that … I mean … you don’t mind?’

‘God no! Entirely the opposite.’

Sherlock huffed a laugh and buried his head in John’s shoulder, the quivering in his body now full on trembling. He said something into John’s neck but it was too soft for John to hear and besides, the feel of Sherlock’s lips moving over his skin had heat pooling in his groin within seconds. 

However Sherlock’s trembling was getting worse and John was practically holding him upright, which pulled his mind away from his body and back to the fact that his flatmate had just done the emotional equivalent of strip naked and offer himself up on a platter.  Combine that with what was almost certainly in the first stages of serious nicotine withdrawal and it wasn’t surprising he was going to pieces.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured in Sherlock’s hair, hands rubbing soothing circles on his still thin back, 'thank you for letting me in.'

Sherlock lifted his head, blinking as if surfacing from a dream.  His breath was still coming in gasps and he was clinging to John like a drowning man clings to a life raft. 'What happens now?'

John’s heart lurched, his theory that Sherlock had never, ever done anything like this with anyone else crystalising into a certainty.  This was Sherlock stripped to the bone, all artifice and sociopathic armour gone. It was one of the most beautiful things John had ever witnessed. 

He cupped Sherlock's face gently and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

'Right now we get you back onto the sofa, dose you with a nicotine patch and give you some tea. Then, once I'm satisfied you aren't going to pass out on me, we'll talk about us.'

'Us,' Sherlock echoed, sounding so childlike John had to bite the inside of his mouth for second.

'Come on,' John twisted so one of Sherlock's arms was over his shoulders and began manoeuvring his .... How on earth was he going to describe Sherlock from now on, anyway? His partner? Boyfriend? Significant other? He shook his head, now was not the time .... manouvering _his_ Sherlock out of the kitchen, 'We're going to take this one step at a time.'

'Thank you, John.' The intensity in those three little words left John in no doubt that Sherlock knew he wasn't just referring to getting him into the living room.

oxOxo

‘Everything is ready, Sir.’

‘But?’

‘He wants to meet you.’

‘He can go on wanting. I don’t get my hands dirty, Seb.’

‘Quite.’

‘And our favourite toy?’

‘At the flat.’ The sub-text “where else” rang out as clearly as if it had been spoken.

‘Right then, send our messenger. It’s time to get this show on the road.’ 

oxOxo

Leaving Sherlock flopped on the couch, a nicotine patch now firmly applied to his arm, John made it as far at the kettle before the realisation of what had just happened crashed down on him.  Gripping the worktop hard enough to turn his knuckles white he rested his head against the cupboard door and tried to find some order in the maelstrom of his thoughts. 

Even if he didn’t consider the kiss – which he could still feel on his lips – there were so many things he needed to get his head round he didn’t know where to start.  Had Sherlock really just told him that he’d been lying that first meal at Angelo’s when he said he wasn’t interested? That he’d actually been attracted to John way back then? He knew he’d found Sherlock attractive from the second he’d laid eyes on him, however hard he’d tried to tell himself otherwise, but the thought that he hadn’t been the only one fighting what was happening made him feel better about it all, absurd as that sounded. 

Had it really been six weeks since the pool?  Six weeks since a semtex vest, the worst gun safety he’d ever seen and a shared nod had forced his head to accept what his heart had been telling him since a stranger had said ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’  Was it the same for Sherlock? Was that when he’d realised?  That would certainly explain why his reaction to the event had been so extreme.  For John it had been a relief to stop denying his feelings, even with the accompanying hurt when he accepted they would never be reciprocated but for Sherlock an upsurge of sentiment that he had no frame of reference for must have been terrifying. Yet he’d been getting better, so John had to assume that Sherlock had begun to rationalise the feelings away, taking back control, eliminating all traces of the emotions that had weakened him. 

Right up until today.

Right up to the point that he’d lowered all his defences and done something he’d never done before.

Because that had been Sherlock’s first kiss.  He, John Hamish Watson, had been given something no-one else had proved worthy of. 

The implication of this, that Sherlock felt the same way about John as he felt about Sherlcok, was as staggering as it was brilliant. _Breathe_ , he told himself, pushing away from the units and flicking the kettle on, _focus_.  It really wasn’t about him right now, it was about Sherlock, the man who’d happily classified himself as a high functioning sociopath in front of a room full of police officers and a potential flat-mate who’d barely known him for twenty-four hours.  The man to whom social niceties were something to observe, not participate in.  The man who had, by his own admission not half an hour ago, shut off all his emotions for the majority of his life.

Yes, this had to be about Sherlock for the time being, if he didn’t want him to have a relapse.  Especially given what he’d read in those files Mycroft had … John almost dropped the mugs he was pulling from the cupboard.

The files. 

Sherlock’s private medical records that he had no right to read whatsoever. 

At the time he’d justified it as a necessary evil, just one more thing to help him keep Sherlock alive.  But back then he’d not entertained the possibility that Sherlock would ever return his affections, so his violation of trust would never need to be shared.  But now, now his actions had to be laid bare.  He couldn’t keep this from him, not for another minute, not if they were to be together properly.  Yet the thought of how Sherlock would react when he found out John had abused his position hurt John physically. 

His hands gripped the sugar canister in front of him as he searched his soul, trying to find the courage to turn around, go back in there and tell the man he …

‘Mycroft told me he was going to give you my medical records.’

Sherlock’s words from the kitchen door may as well have been a tazer for the reaction they produced.  John jumped violently, flinging the canister away from him with such force it sprayed its, thankfully minimal, contents across the kitchen and ended up, completely empty, at Sherlock’s feet.

‘Jesus, Sherlock!’ John took a few gulps of air to steady himself, searching Sherlock’s face for some indication of what he was thinking. ‘How … how did you know?’

Sherlock’s mouth quirked in that familiar half smile and the knot in John’s chest eased.

‘Hardly a difficult deduction.  You came in here to make tea twenty minutes ago, for the past four of those you’ve been frozen to the spot and you murmured “abuse of trust” about thirty seconds before I spoke.  Couple that with my unexpected revelations earlier, the fact that you know how I feel about my brother’s interference in my life and your own trust issues and it really was quite elementary.’

‘Oh. Right.’ John wished, not for the first time, that he could be slightly more eloquent when faced with first hand evidence of Sherlock’s brilliance. ‘Doesn’t absolve me though, does it, since I didn’t know you knew when I read them.’

‘And that thought is exactly what does,’ Sherlock walked over to him, sugar crunching with every step. ‘You did it because you care about me.  Care about me more than you care for your principles, for convention, for anything.  That …’

 Sherlock turned his head away, fists clenching and mouth twitching.

 John acted on instinct, wrapping one arm round Sherlock’s waist as his other hand brushed over a cheekbone and then tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking the silken curls softly.  He could feel Sherlock fighting his own emotions even as his arms came up to band round John so tightly it hurt but John stayed silent, rubbing tiny circles in the small of Sherlock’s back and wishing he knew what to say.

 ‘Is this what he meant?’  Sherlock asked at long last.

 ‘Who?’ John said into his chest.

 ‘Moriarty,’

 John’s body went rigid at the name and he felt, as well as heard, the growl that erupted from the depths of his throat.

 ‘When he said he’d burn the heart out of me,’ Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s reaction completely, ‘Is this what he meant?’

John closed his eyes for a second, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

‘Oh Sherlock,’ he looked up, gently tugging on Sherlock’s hair until the other man met his eyes. ‘He may have inadvertently fanned some flames but no, this was not what he meant.’

John desperately sought the right words to explain but Sherlock’s eyes, confusion evident in their depths, were still locked on his and they were all John could focus on. The deep gold circle surrounding the partially dilated pupil.  The mix of blues, greens and greys in the rest of the iris lit by some unearthly fire.

Flickering.

Changeable.

Mesmerizing.

Images of the night sky back in Sangin filled his mind, the whorl of Milky Way that had lit up the dark and provided a balm for his soul, a balm that he’d missed since he returned to the light polluted capital; and now he’d found it again, here in the face of the man who’d brought him back to life.

He rocked up on his toes, his other hand coming up to cup Sherlock’s face, thumb brushing from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth over his cheekbone, silently asking permission. 

‘You feel it too,’ Sherlock murmured, his body relaxing perceptibly as his hands roamed over John’s back and down to his waist, steadying and pulling him even closer. ‘This … this is how it’s supposed to be.’

 It was a statement not a question but John answered anyway.

 ‘Yes,’ he breathed, lips now almost touching Sherlock’s, ‘Yes it is. This is exactly how we’re supposed to be.’

 This time John was the one who initiated the kiss.

oxOxo

‘And this was where, Anderson?’

‘In the file you left me. I assumed it had got tucked inside by mistake and sent PC Jones up with it.’

‘Run the envelope. Check for prints, saliva, anything you can find.’

‘Right, Sir.  It’ll be compromised now though.  If I’d known ...’

‘Not your fault.  Just get those tests run - anything is better than nothing right now.  I don’t know what this is supposed to mean but it can’t be anything good.’

Lestrade sighed as he watched Anderson walk away, wishing that he’d picked any other day to give up carbs and alcohol. ‘Donavan, get on to control.  I want to know the instant we get a report of a suspicious fire.’

‘Where are you going?’ Donavan’s tone told him she already knew.

‘To get some perspective, Sergeant. Now get on that phone.’

oxOxo

 _What happened to taking it slow?_  A small voice in the back of John’s mind enquired as he moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock having proved a  _very_ quick study on the art of kissing.   _What happened to talking about it?_  He made a very brief attempt to rein himself in but then Sherlock’s tongue curled round his own again and he lost himself once more.  He wasn’t sure quite how long they’d been like this, John straddling Sherlock on one of the kitchen chairs, kissing like it was going out of fashion. 

If he was being honest, it hadn’t started out that well, all teeth, saliva and awkwardness but then Sherlock had made a small mewling noise and pulled John on top of him into the chair, relinquishing all control of the kiss and it had gone from ok, to good and then to marvellous in short order.

 _Was it part of having a eidectic memory?_ John wondered as Sherlock sucked on his bottom lip and then nipped at it, exactly as John had done to him earlier. _Or maybe_ , he thought as he teased the roof of Sherlock’s mouth with the tip of his tongue, eliciting a moan that shook them both, _it’s another one of his natural talents.  Either way I’m not complaining._   Sherlock’s hands were tight in his jumper again, clenching in time with the twitches of his hips that left John in no doubt that Sherlock was as thoroughly aroused by the proceedings as he was.  When Sherlock pulled back to take a much needed breath John shifted his attention to the pulse point below Sherlock’s left ear, sucking lightly and the grazing it with his teeth.

‘Oh God John ... oh ... John!’

Sherlock’s voice was low, thick with lust and desire and John lifted his head to look at him, having never heard such need from anyone he’d been with before.  Sherlock's head was thrown back, eyelids fluttering over flushed cheeks, lips swollen and redder than John had ever known them.

 ‘You are so beautiful,’ the words came unbidden but John wouldn’t have unsaid them for the world, not when they produced such a glorious, unguarded smile.

 ‘I ... you are beautiful too.’

Sherlock’s hands moved over John’s face, fingertips running over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, his lips.  The intent on his face was unmistakeable, he was memorising John, mapping every detail of the moment and John once again found it hard to breathe. 

 ‘Are you alright?’ he managed when he noticed that Sherlock was biting on his lower lip even as his fingers traced the curve of John’s ears.

 ‘Yes, I ...’ he swallowed, hands coming to rest on John’s shoulders, his lips twitching, ‘I ...’

‘It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?’ John slipped his hands under Sherlock’s, lacing their fingers together.

‘Good though.’ Sherlock said with a disarming grin.  ‘But I’m going to need more data though, to make sure I thoroughly understand this.’

‘I’d hoped you’d say that,’ John grinned back him as he stood, pulling Sherlock up with him, ‘but right now I think we both need some tea.’

‘Really?’ Sherlock said, face uncertain as he attempted to unlink his hands from John.

‘Really.’ John agreed, tightening his hold. ‘I said we were going to take this one step at a time and I meant it.  This is new for both of us and we’ve got all the time in the world.  I won’t rush things and risk messing anything up.’

‘Ah.’ Sherlock’s face cleared, only to frown the next second. ‘This is so confusing.  I don’t ... I’m not thinking properly.  It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Love doesn’t.’ John said, giving the sugar covered floor a rueful look as his foot slid on it. Then he realised what he’d said. ‘I mean ... well ...’

The thud of metal on plaster and the sound of feet on the stairs halted John’s stuttering but did nothing for the colour flooding into his face. 

‘It’s Lestrade,’ Sherlock said, voice crisp and precise again, although his hands remained entwined with John’s as he turned towards the door.  ‘Do you think it’s something good?’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of Sangin (Helmand Province, Afghanistan) and the night sky is a tribute to Abundantlyqueer's "Two Two One Bravo Baker" fic which I love unto death.
> 
> I've spent the weekend planning the whole fic out, although I still don't have a clue how many chapters it's going to be and I feel slightly more like Moriarty than I ever thought possible. 
> 
> Again, con-crit is the most welcome thing in the world!


End file.
